Part 13 – The Registration
The knock was soft. Too soft. Like a secret someone didn't want to tell.
Bhuvanya froze halfway across the room, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
"Who?" she asked, voice hoarse.
Silence. Then a familiar, cold baritone:
"Open the door."
Her breath hitched. It wasn't Aarush. It wasn't Kabir or Aarav. It was him.
Her father.
She backed away from the door as if the wood itself burned.
"I don't want to see you," she whispered. "Go away."
But the door handle turned anyway. Slowly. Deliberately.
The lock had never been for her protection.
The door opened, and her father stepped in like he owned the air she breathed. He looked exactly as she remembered: neatly pressed suit, polished shoes, a faint scent of expensive cologne. But his eyes—flat, empty, like glass—were nothing like the father who once held her hand at the fair.
"Bhuvanya," he said softly, like an apology wrapped in command. "Come with me."
She shook her head violently, retreating until her back hit the wall. "I won't. I won't go anywhere with you."
His expression didn't change. He stepped aside. Aarush appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, Kabir behind him, a wolfish grin on his lips. Aarav lingered in the shadows, eyes unreadable.
"She's being dramatic," Kabir muttered. "Drag her if you have to."
Aarush didn't say a word. He just nodded once. Two maids stepped in, hands trembling, and moved toward her.
"No!" Bhuvanya hissed, but the room was shrinking, bodies closing in. Her father's voice floated over the struggle, calm and businesslike:
"The boardroom. Now."
They didn't drag her, not exactly. But hands on her arms, her shoulders, guided her down the hall like she was a criminal being walked to court. She dug her heels into the carpet, but every step still took her closer.
The mansion's boardroom was colder than she remembered. Long table. High-backed chairs. No windows. A single chandelier overhead, its light too bright, casting everything in sharp relief. It smelled faintly of ink and something metallic.
A single document lay on the table. Not a contract—an entire folder of papers, heavy with signatures and seals. A silver fountain pen waited at the top page.
"Sit," Aarush ordered quietly.
"I won't," she spat.
Her father's hand came down on the back of the chair with a flat, echoing thud. "Sit down."
Something inside her snapped. All the hunger, the rage, the fear came spilling out.
"You sold me!" she screamed. "You—my own father—you sold me like I'm—"
"That's enough," Aarush said.
Bhuvanya's knees gave out before her will did. She dropped into the chair, shaking.
Her father slid the folder toward her. "It's a formality," he said. "You sign, and it's done."
Her eyes flicked down. The words blurred: Transfer of Guardianship. Registration of Ward. Contractual Security. She felt sick. It wasn't just a sale. They were erasing her, turning her into a line item, a property number.
Kabir leaned against the table, smirking. "Smile for the papers, doll. First day in your new life."
She glared at him, but the pen trembled in her hand. Her name stared back at her from the dotted line, waiting to be killed in ink.
"I won't," she whispered.
Aarush's chair scraped back. He walked behind her, slow, measured. His hand brushed the back of her chair—not touching her, just there. "You think this is about what you want?" he murmured near her ear. "It's not. It's about rules."
She swallowed hard.
Her father's voice was low but sharp. "Bhuvanya. Sign. Now."
The air in the room felt thick, like breathing tar. She glanced around—Aarush's dark amusement, Kabir's predatory grin, Aarav's silence. And her father, who wouldn't even meet her eyes now.
Her hand jerked. The pen touched paper. A thin line of ink curved across the page like blood.
"Good girl," Kabir said.
Her head shot up, fury blazing through the terror. "Don't call me that."
Aarush chuckled under his breath. "She still bites."
Her father closed the folder, his hands shaking just slightly. "It's done," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
But when he looked at her again, something flickered behind his mask. Guilt? Or pity? She couldn't tell.
"What happens now?" she whispered.
Aarush leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His smile was slow, deliberate, the kind of smile you give someone when you've already decided what they are.
"Now," he said, "you start learning the rules."
The chandelier flickered once, casting the room into momentary shadow.
And for a heartbeat, she thought she heard someone else's voice—not Aarush, not Kabir, not her father—soft and distant, like a warning from a dream:
This isn't what you think it is.
She blinked. The room was silent again. Only the folder sat there, closed, a single signature sealing her fate.
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